Antony N Britt (calls himself Nick, to be awkward) is the author of horror novel, Dead Girl Stalking – a page-turning tale that slaps you in the face when you least expect it. He lives in Walsall in a house full of CDs, videos, books and many unread pieces of paper which may hold the secret to eternal life, but are most probably pizza menus.

Ghost Stories: Tales from the Dead of Night

Meet …
Mark, who loves Alison, but must first get past her dead father.
Jessie and Tommy. In fear of what’s in the attic.
Colin. As a medium, he’s used to ghosts. It’s the living he needs to be scared of.
Alec, haunted by a tragedy which took place forty years ago. Now the past has caught up.
Karen and Matthew, locked in a manor house with the spirit of its sadistic former owner.
Irene. All she wanted was attention; now she wishes it would go away.
And meet Cara. Disturbed by the presence in her bedsit, and a bloodstain which keeps returning.

By the author of Dead Girl Stalking, Ghost Stories contains 20 tales from the dead of night which will have you frightened to turn off the light. A book best left face down, under the bed, so the spirits can’t escape.

The Sunday Roast – Pitching a Novel, PC Pleb and Taking the Pee.

Pitching an idea.

Last Saturday, myself and fellow troublemaker, Rich, took the 0830 train to London in order to have a 30-second pitch to an agent, plus useful feedback then question and answer sessions. This was at Foyles Bookshop and the agents were from Curtis Brown – just about as big as you can get in the UK.

Okay, I didn’t get my novel taken on but I did see a book I have a piece in, smack bang in the window of Foyles.

Me, and you can just about make out Alarmist Magazine above the sign by my hand which says, magazines. It’s the dark cover with The Holy Book, on the cover. I will add, Alarmist isn’t a religious publication, just in case you think I’ve turned towards the light. Nooooo! Happy being a church-fearing atheist, me.

Still, it made my day and how many others pitching could boast being in the window of Foyles. The only way I’d have thought it possible for me was if I took part in a ram-raid which went wrong.

An idiot abroad. Well, in London, anyway.

After we left Foyles, neither of us really knew where we were going but we still had four hours to kill before the panel event later in the day. We were also hungry so we set off to find food, promptly getting lost before coming across this …

Ha! Knew where were, then. So, navigating the streets of London from memory of a Monopoly Board, we took a chance, turned into Leicester Square with me narrowly avoiding jail after an unwise attempt at chatting up a woman young enough to be my daughter.

Okay, there does come a time in life when you realise you’re too old and not going to shag Buffy the Vampire Slayer. For me, this was it. And it was pointed out that having a cute lass on the door, does not constitute a good reason to go inside and eat there.

So we opted for Pizza Hut instead and contrary to my normal eating-out disasters, this particular Hut, hadn’t, as is normally the case with me, run out of Pizza. Believe me – it happens.

So I survived London, and even managed to find my way back to Euston Station, despite it not being on a Monopoly board.

Do the maths, Sir.

These days, I accept the only virgin I’m ever going to get inside, is the express train home from London. Not so, maths teacher, Jeremy Forrest. He failed to learn the ultimate lesson. After being on the run for a week with his 15-year-old lover, 30-year old Forrest is rightly, in custody. Idiot. One career up the spout. Just hope that’s the only thing that is. It’s ironic really. One week, he’s taking the register, next week, he’s on one.

The multi-tasking daughter of the King.

Lisa Marie Presley has been a busy girl.

She was in the papers on Wednesday with the article about her farming exploits. Then, yesterday, she’s in them again but now, apparently, she’s helping out at the local chip shop. I won’t make the Kirsty MacColl song reference. Even I wouldn’t be cruel to stoop that way on down. However, what now? Is she going to be working on the reception of a Heartbreak Hotel next, or will she be a postal worker, returning letters to sender?

Well, there’s a surprise.

Crackhead, Blake Fielder-Civil has finally admitted he was responsible for Amy Winehouse getting into drugs.

No way! Next you’ll be telling me Quentin Crisp was a homosexual.

Plagiarise that … really?

Waiting in a dental reception, I picked up a copy of scummy paper, The Sun. Yes, it was a bit like pulling teeth but I was amused by the leading article, namely the exclusive on pop artist, Tulisa’s, autobiography.

Honest? If she was honest, she’d say which ghost writer really penned the book. Also, how anybody at the age of 24 can have done stuff to warrant a biography, is beyond me. Still, people will buy and read it. I wonder if Tulisa has, yet?

However, the most amusing thing in the Sun’s article was the warning about copyright and that their lawyers are watching, in case anybody wants to plagiarise.

Come on, who’d want to admit to that … apart from Tulisa?

Crash the party.

Apparently, 4,000 people gatecrashed a party in Haren – Holland after some silly girl posted it on Facebook.

Amazing. 4000 people without a social life.

And for his next trick.

Last week, I told about nobhead minister, Andrew Mitchell. He’s the pillock who thinks he runs the government and all under him are plebs. Poor old Andrew, he says he’s being judged unfairly. As well as calling the police, plebs, he has just demanded a £60k Jaguar as a perk of his job while the plebs have to use the bus. He also, apparently, had a mug specially printed with his former job of Secretary of State, written on. Nothing pretentious there, then? How about next week, going the whole hog and having a tattoo? Maybe the word Tosser, written on his forehead would be a good idea.

I have to shout support for the police officers who picketed his constituency office the other day. Brilliant.

Yes, the police. They’re some of the guys who keep the country running, not cretins like Andrew Mitchell.

Night Writing.

I’m writing much of this, full of heavy cold in the hope my nose has stopped running by the time I go to an all-night writing session, Saturday evening. I’m not off to London like last week but am taking part in Birmingham Book Festival’s, Night at the Locksmith’s House. I only hope the locksmith knows there are load of writers descending on him. Still, if my cold gets too bad, I can always rest up here.

Actually, the house is a museum. It is hoped, spending the night there, pen and pad in hand, I can come up with some inspiration for future stories.

Taking the pee.

Back to my trip to London and it was there, I had the usual problem of queueing up for a toilet cubicle. I always feel silly. There’s loads of empty urinals but I have to wait for an enclosed cubicle to empty, just so I can pee. You see, I always seem to wear jeans with about a dozen buttons to undo. Have a zip? Not me. It takes about five minutes struggle to get the buttons undone, then another ten to do them up again. It’s far easier just to pull your trousers down to the ankles. Therefore, I have to use a cubicle. You see, if I dropped my trousers in a public convenience, people would be thinking I was touting for sex. Then I really would be sent to jail on the Monopoly board.

4 Comments:

I’m glad you don’t actually buy the Sun newspaper. You seem to come across different news items to me anyway. I get all mine online and go from the FT to the Guardian to Reuters in the space of an hour. It was Twitter yesterday!

ahhh another good roasting congrats on being in a window display that really is fantastic and dont worry about pulling down and sitting when u pee its something that happens with age in men ;0 yes you old git lol but you still look good for your age keep up the great writing and good luck with your book x